


auto pilot

by darkcity



Category: Combat Zone Wrestling, Professional Wrestling
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkcity/pseuds/darkcity
Summary: Chuck chooses the wrong guy to weasel into buying him booze.
Relationships: JC Ryder/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	auto pilot

**Author's Note:**

> to clarify, this fic is about baby orange cassidy aka jc ryder, not current-day oc. soz....but i love him :\

Chuck’s rounding the corner of the venue, darting his glance around and hoping he's not mistaken for some pathetic fan, when his attention's taken by some guy leaning against the wall. Well, by the flask in his hand. Chuck's not an alcoholic or anything, but he is underage, so he kinda has to seize every opportunity to get alcohol inside his body. 

He squints, trying to figure out which of the 14 skinny dudes in CZW he’s looking at. But oh, of course, it’s the blonde. The insanely blonde blonde. The Jersey dickhead. JC something. No wonder he’s out here alone.

This is the guy that loves getting in everyone’s faces, flexing his scrawny arms and challenging fans to hit him. And Chuck gets it; he'd probably be a douchebag too if he was a blonde pretty boy — well, maybe ‘pretty’ isn’t the right word — trying to make it in a fighting sport. And it was kinda amusing, watching him step up on the ropes, posing and smiling obnoxiously while everyone boos him.

Well, if he's so unpopular, maybe it'll be easy to get a drink from him. Some basic flattery, Chuck figures, sidling up to him.

“Hey, cool match last Friday,” he says, though he doesn’t actually remember anything JC did, past the obnoxious entrance and his horrible music. JC nods, not bothering to look at him, like he knows he doesn’t mean it. “Can I get some of that?” he adds, nodding at the flask. JC raises an unimpressed brow at him and sighs.

“Whatever,” he replies flatly. Chuck reaches for the flask but the guy yanks his hand back, holding it out of reach. “You got ID on you?"

“Real funny, kid,” Chuck scoffs, snatching the flask out of his hand with little resistance, taking a swig. It’s fucking disgusting, burns all the way down, and Chuck wonders what kind of sick fuck would fill a flask with what tastes like cheap vodka and Red Bull. But he shakes his head and takes another swig, because booze is booze. “Where'd you get this anyway?"

“I bought it.”

“Pfft. I’m not a cop, man, be honest.”

JC rolls his eyes, sighing all resigned like he’s been through this exchange plenty of times. He reaches into his pocket and leafs through a loose bundle of crumpled up cash — and Chuck makes a mental note to ask later what the fuck’s wrong with him — to pull out his (presumably fake) ID and show it off.

Chuck snatches it out of his hand, inspecting it closely before realizing he doesn’t actually know what he’s looking for. He’s not sure what a real New Jersey ID’s supposed to look like, but JC does look dumb as hell in his picture, and he figures he’d probably have used a better shot if it were fake.

“Well, shit,” he concedes. But JC looks almost proud then, and Chuck can’t have that. “21 and still haven’t hit puberty yet,” he adds. “Impressive.” He smiles obnoxiously at the unamused glare he gets in response.

“Oh sorry, should I grow some shitty facial hair so everyone knows I’m a big boy?” JC shoots back, and Chuck scowls, because his facial hair is super cool and looks great, actually, and this guy’s probably just jealous because he couldn’t grow any if he wanted to.

The little brat reaches to take his ID back, and Chuck's the one to yank his hand away this time, reaching his arm up to hold the card above his head. He feels a little childish for doing it, but JC stretching up on his tippy toes to try and snatch it back is definitely worse.

“Buy me booze and I’ll give it back,” he demands. JC looks taken aback for a second before his expressions flattens, resigned.

“Whatever,” he replies, and Chuck smirks triumphantly. JC reaches for his ID again but Chuck keeps his arm up high, fighting the instinct to stick his tongue out.

“You can have it when we get to the liquor store.”

\--

JC buys whatever whiskey he can afford with the $10 bill he gave him, and Chuck gets to watch through the dashboard and laugh as he gets grilled by a cashier who spends a good few minutes staring at his ID.

He plans to drop JC off at whatever seedy motel room he’s got and then go back to his own seedy motel room to get wasted alone. But then JC’s threatening to throw the bottle out the window if he doesn’t share it, because _I don’t give a shit, I can just buy another one_ , and then he’s digging the weed out of Chuck’s glove compartment and demanding he share that _too_ , and god, Chuck chose the wrong guy to weasel into buying him booze.

So somehow he ends up parked in his car with this blonde brat — because he’s not getting fined again for smoking weed in a motel — in some shady spot near the woods that he imagines is a big hit with high schoolers who wanna lose their virginities.

Chuck doesn’t even wanna smoke, so he just sits there drinking from the bottle, passing it to JC every few minutes, while watching him roll a joint and wondering vaguely how he’s gonna get home after this. Because he’s definitely getting too blasted to drive if he’s gotta spend more time with this dude. 

And it does help, getting blasted, the whiskey doing its job and making JC and his grating, lispy voice a bit more tolerable. He’s kinda funny too, and he’s got some good stories, which Chuck learns because he never shuts the fuck up.

But he’s still a brat, holding his joint up in Chuck’s face when he’s done rolling it to show off how nice it came out.

“Yeah, great,” Chuck says flatly. “Congratulations, you found a use for your girly little hands.”

JC just huffs around the joint in his mouth, lighting it and taking an incredibly long hit. Chuck looks down at the bottle in his hands and there’s less than half left, and he’s baffled how this dude is gonna suck down a joint after pounding that much liquor, on top of the fucked up shit he had in his flask.

And bitter, too, because how the hell does this disaster have more muscle definition than he does? Chuck can only really see his arms now, but even there it’s visible, his forearms all sculpted and defined. And he remembers his abs from the ring, remembers being surprised and resentfully impressed that this scrawny dude’s got fucking gills for obliques. 

“Hey, where’d you get your abs?” he blurts out, drunker than he thought, apparently. JC furrows his brow, confused. “I mean,” he tries again, “how’d you get ‘em like that? All washboard-y.” That puts a dumb smirk on the blonde’s face, and Chuck rolls his eyes. “I’m just sayin’. It’s surprising for someone who drinks vodka and Red Bull in the middle of the day.”

He thinks he did a pretty good job spinning that compliment into an insult, but JC’s got an unreadable look on his face, staring at him and squinting his eyes all stupidly. Like his tiny brain’s trying to have a thought or something.

“Take a hit,” he finally says, holding the half-smoked joint towards him.

“I’m good,” Chuck says, shaking his head. Because weed just makes him hungry and horny and confused, and he doesn’t wanna go through that whole journey parked in the woods with a guy he barely knows.

“C’mon,” JC insists, getting in his space and shoving the paper up against his closed mouth like the obnoxious asshole he is. “Do it, you little bitch,” he challenges, and Chuck scowls, opening his mouth to let him slide the joint in. 

Which is fucking weird, he now realizes, especially with the guy’s fingers pressing against his lips. But he pulls on it anyway, just wanting the douchebag to shut the hell up. There’s no filter, the smoke harsh in the back of his throat, but he takes it, because he’s _not_ a little bitch. He keeps pulling, waiting for JC to take it out, but of course he fucking doesn’t, making Chuck inhale until he’s coughing, choking on the smoke, JC’s stupid squeaky laugh in his ears.

“Fuckin’... asshole,” he wheezes between coughs.

“First time?” JC mocks him, big snobby smile on his face as he brings the joint back to his own lips. Chuck ignores him, trying to soothe his throat with some whiskey. Probably not the best idea, just adding to the burn. 

But the pain dies down at the same rate the weed hits him, and fuck, it really has been a while. Because it only takes a minute for him to start getting that tingly numbness, melting against his headrest and closing his eyes. He doesn’t care how much of a lightweight he looks like anymore, not worried so much about trying to impress the guy who just scorched his fucking throat.

“Hey,” he hears from somewhere to his right. “You wanna shotgun?” which makes no sense. They don’t have beer. He lifts his head and looks around to double check. Yeah, definitely no beer.

“You can’t shotgun whiskey, dumbass.”

“I’m talking about the weed, _dumbass_ ,” JC says. Chuck stares at him blankly, waiting for him to start making sense. “You take a puff and then breathe it into someone else's mouth,” he explains. Chuck squints, still waiting for him to start making sense.

“Sounds gay as shit,” he decides.

“Yeah, kinda,” JC says, shrugging. “Wanna do it?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Chuck’s not sure if he just heard JC mutter _nice_ under his breath or if he imagined it, but he decides not to worry about it, watching JC lift the joint to his lips. He takes a pull and looks pretty stupid with his cheeks all puffed up to hold the smoke in. Chuck thinks distantly it's good the guy's got such a big mouth, probably holds a lot of smoke. Enough to make Chuck forget how tense and weird he feels watching him lean into his space and reach out to grip his jaw. 

And Chuck should've thought this through better, should've come up with some cool, detached way to suck the smoke in that wouldn't feel so much like a kiss. Because now, with his hand on the back of JC's neck and his head tilted to slot their mouths together, it doesn't really feel like anything else.

JC seems to have a pretty good handle on how this works, though, the smoke rolling easily into Chuck's mouth. The puff's gone fast, mostly because their lips finally brush and Chuck kinda just gasps all the smoke in at once. He’s expecting JC to back off, but he lingers there instead, his lips pressing more firmly, closing his mouth and nipping at Chuck’s bottom lip while he’s still gaping like a fish, reflexes slow.

“Hey, what the hell, man,” he eventually says, pushing him away. JC stares at him, a confused look on his face that quickly shifts to unimpressed.

“What’d you think the point of shotgunning was?” he asks, annoyed.

Chuck blinks, looking off to the side, because he doesn’t really have a good answer to that. He’s too high, can’t tell which one of them’s the weird one here, but he’s thinking it might be him, agreeing to suck smoke out of someone’s mouth and then being surprised when they kiss him.

His eyes dart around, landing on the whiskey bottle, and yeah, that’s a good idea. Whiskey will know what to do.

“Gimme a minute,” he says, swallowing a couple mouthfuls, replacing the feeling of JC's lips on his with the wet glass of the bottle.

“Aw, you nervous?” JC coos.

“Nah, just need better whiskey goggles if I’m gonna mack on that face of yours.” 

He laughs at his own line, partly because he’s high and he’s proud of it, and partly because he doesn’t want the guy to take it seriously and get all pissy at him. But JC laughs easily, watching him take another swig, a little spark in his eyes. Fucking loser.

The guy must really like kissing, because he caps the bottle and JC’s shifting closer the next second, leaning towards him again. He stops him with a hand on his chest, and JC lets out a frustrated huff.

“What are you doing?” Chuck asks. “Take a hit first.”

JC rolls his eyes, and Chuck definitely heard him mutter _fuckin’ baby_ under his breath this time. But he picks the joint back up, relighting it because apparently he put it out sometime between his last hit and trying to french Chuck. He brings it to his lips again, and Chuck wonders if anyone has ever looked so pissy while taking a hit.

He leans over and pushes their mouths together again, Chuck breathing in the smoke. He didn’t really need or want another hit, but it’s not like he’s gonna kiss JC straight up, like they’re boyfriends or something. So he inhales, and when he feels lips closing against his, he doesn’t pull back.

It’s sloppy and awkward for a few seconds, which is probably because JC’s a messy bitch, and not because it’s Chuck’s first time kissing a guy and he’s overthinking it. It’s good anyway, because JC’s lips are surprisingly soft and it turns out making out high feels really nice. The haze is making his nerves buzz pleasantly, and he almost moans when JC slides his tongue into his mouth but manages to keep his cool. He hooks a hand around JC’s neck just for some stability, but then he feels his hair and it’s so soft and his fingers are sliding up into it before he can stop them.

It’s been a while since Chuck made out aimlessly with someone like this. Minutes pass and he doesn’t remember where this is supposed to go, what he’s supposed to do. But his body seems to. His hand’s moving and he doesn’t know what it’s doing until he feels it slipping under JC’s shirt, sliding over his abs. It’s not the best angle, but he still gets a good grip on his muscled side, his thumb dipping into the dents of his obliques.

He’s so firm, but he still feels so small, it makes Chuck’s head light, his fingers fanning out to find his hand easily covers half his stomach. JC moans at that, almost like a whine, like some virgin loser who’s never been felt up before. But then Chuck feels a hand on his thigh and he’s gasping and breaking the kiss, so maybe he’s the loser. Because it turns out he’s pretty damn hard just from some kissing and light fondling.

“Uhh,” he starts, no idea how he’s gonna finish.

“Wanna fool around?” JC asks simply, inching his hand higher up his thigh.

And Chuck’s nodding without thinking twice, because what’s he gonna say to that, _no_? It’ll be a cold day in hell when he tells someone _not_ to touch his dick.

His eyes dart around, thinking about how this is gonna work, but JC’s already opening the passenger door. Chuck must be pretty fucked up, because he’s genuinely confused for a few seconds until he remembers his backseat exists.

He pops out and climbs into the back and luckily doesn’t have to think too hard about what’s next because JC’s already crawling onto his lap. But then Chuck's frozen for a few seconds, hands lying uselessly on the seats while he looks up at him. Because the weed and the break in action got him _thinking_ , and now he’s wondering how the hell he ended up in the backseat of his car with a hard-on and some bratty blonde dude from New Jersey he didn’t know 4 hours ago.

He probably looks like a braindead idiot, but whatever, he's high, he's allowed to feel a little lost. He’s got no shame about it, ready to outright ask what he should do now. But JC grinds his hips down easily and everything suddenly seems a lot simpler, his head falling back and a stupid loud groan breaking out because he wasn’t expecting how good this feels high.

His hands come up to grip JC’s hips tightly, the friction lighting up his nerves like crazy. It takes him a minute to calm down enough to pry his eyes open, and JC looks as dazed as he is, at least, staring at Chuck with his mouth hanging open dumbly.

He doesn’t have a good reason to kiss him anymore, the joint’s gone, but he pulls him down anyway, because it’s definitely weirder to just look into his eyes like this. Plus — and he really hates to admit it — JC is a good kisser. Or maybe that’s just the weed’s impact, because Chuck’s not usually the biggest fan of kissing, but the feeling of their tongues sliding together has him groaning and bucking his hips up.

His sluggish brain helpfully reminds him he’s free to feel up JC’s abs all he wants now, and with the haze in his head, he’s stupidly surprised and excited at the thought. His hands move eagerly, slipping under his shirt and sliding over the tight muscle of his stomach. He’ll probably be embarrassed later at the way he’s groping at JC, pawing over his chest and abs like it’s his first time. And it is his first time with a dude, but that thought makes him feel incredibly lame and childish, so he doubles down, breaking the kiss to yank JC’s shirt off like the confident, experienced guy he is.

And then he’s just staring at JC’s shirtless torso like an idiot, his hands coming up to grip his sides and pull him down to meet his thrusts. His mind starts reeling like it always does when he's high, but at least this time it’s with nice thoughts. Like those pretty hands that rolled the joint so expertly wrapped around Chuck's dick. JC on his knees, Chuck with a handful of blonde hair. JC riding him right there in his backseat.

“Shit, yeah,” he groans, pulling JC closer by his hips so he can grind right up against his ass. He slides a hand up to palm at his tight chest, getting a couple good squeezes in before JC’s grabbing his hand, moving it down to his waistband. Chuck looks up, questioning and a little pissed, because he was enjoying that groping. JC smirks down at him.

“Look, I know I got a hot bod,” he starts, and Chuck scoffs, instantly wanting to throw him off his lap. He fights the urge only because he wouldn’t have anything to rub his boner against if he did that. “But how ‘bout you stare less and touch my dick more?”

“How ‘bout I fuck that dumb smirk off your face?” he spits back.

“Mm, hot,” JC says easily. “Maybe next time.”

Chuck’s not gonna reflect on that last part too much, especially not with JC’s hands reaching down to get his jeans open. He leans back to give him more space, watching those nimble fingers unzip his fly and slip inside his boxers. JC gets a hand around his dick and it’s a little dry, but Chuck moans anyway, because it’s still fucking good. Turns out there are two uses for those girly little hands.

He closes his eyes and enjoys it for a minute or two, not returning the favor just yet, because he wants JC to know he doesn’t have to touch him at all. It’s his car, after all. He could just demand to be jerked off, not do anything in return, tell JC he can walk back to the motel if he’s got a problem with it.

But, being such a great guy, and hoping to shut JC up, he eventually pulls his stupid basketball shorts down, getting a nice breathy sigh out of him as he takes him in hand and tries not to think about how he’s never done this before. JC’s not as hard as he is, which pisses him off, but it’s probably just because he’s a lightweight, anyway, so the whiskey’s hitting him harder than Chuck and he can’t get it up all the way. Pathetic, really.

He gets his hand back on the blonde’s chest, sliding it slowly down his stomach to feel all the dips and ridges of his muscles, his dick pulsing at the amount of definition this skinny fucker somehow has. And he really hopes his obvious fixation isn’t feeding the guy’s ego, but fuck, he does have some nice abs.

JC slaps a hand onto the back of the seat, over Chuck’s shoulder, so he can really fuck into his fist. It looks good, real good, his hips writhing like that, and Chuck thinks again about fucking him like this. 

He lets go of JC’s dick at the thought, sliding his hand around to dip into the back of his shorts and grab his ass instead, though there’s not much to grab. JC whines at the loss of contact, probably frustrated because his dumb little hand isn’t big enough to wrap around both their dicks.

“Shut up,” Chuck grunts, begrudgingly moving his other hand off of JC’s abs to bat his hand away and replace it with his own, circling around both their lengths. They both groan at that, the feeling of their dicks sliding together stupid fucking good for some reason.

JC moves his hand to Chuck’s shoulder, squeezing hard and moving forward to bury his face in his neck. His mouth’s right up against Chuck’s ear now, and he’s moaning… like a girl, honestly, all high-pitched and squeaky. Sounds that are way too sweet for the abrasive person they’re coming out of. But they send heat through Chuck, so he speeds up his hand, turning his head and mouthing up his neck to get some more of those noises. He bites at the hinge of his jaw and JC whimpers, and Chuck hopes he remembers to make fun of him for that later, when he’s not rock hard and twitching at the sound.

He’s getting close, and JC must be too, because his whiny moans start getting all choked up and strained and his nails are digging hard — way too hard, _what the fuck, ow_ — into Chuck’s shoulder. The sliver of Chuck’s brain that’s still functional provides him with the image of the blonde coming all over his own abs, and he’s groaning, pushing JC to sit up in his lap so he can watch it happen. He lets his own dick slip out of his hand so he can focus on JC, pumping him tight and fast.

“C’mon,” he growls, and then JC’s gasping, shooting over his tight stomach, hips jerking up into his hand. Chuck’s transfixed by the sight, groaning, watching spurts of jizz coat his abs. He barely has to touch his own dick before he’s blowing it too, muttering curses under his breath as he strokes himself through it. He fights to keep his eyes open, watching as he adds to the mess on JC’s torso, some of his come managing to reach his chest and he shrugs off the bizarre, sudden urge to lick it off.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he finally groans.

“Yeah, thanks, asshole,” JC says, and it’s almost impressive how bitchy he is for someone who came 10 seconds ago. “I’m a fucking mess.”

“Hey, it’s a good look. You should leave it.”

“You better have napkins in here,” he grumbles. Chuck snorts.

“What is this, a fuckin’ hotel?”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://jcryder.tumblr.com/)


End file.
